


Whispers in the Dark

by Morgana



Series: Back From the Brink [5]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 12:59:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2733443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike deals with the repercussions of running away</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers in the Dark

It was the dreams that drove him out of the tent and back into the desert. Dreams of hot, salty blood flowing in sticky streams down his throat were nothing new - not since the chip, at any rate. But this time... this time it was different. This time he dreamed not of the past, not of some anonymous victim struggling under him, but of something else entirely. Something he was almost sure he could have, if he just asked for it the right way.

It wouldn't take much; a desperate look, maybe a mention of how slowly he healed on goat's blood, a hoarse whisper, a broken plea. He knew all the tricks, had used them all before, on much less soft-hearted prey than the soldier who'd taken him in instead of staking him the way he should've. Riley would have done it, would have opened a vein if he thought it would help him, and in the end, it was that willingness that had drawn him down into the nightmares that sent him scurrying away.

He spent three nights running as far and as fast as he could, trying to put the entire continent of Africa between himself and the temptation of Riley's throat. Because he knew it wouldn't be one drink. Not a harmless one, at any rate. If Spike managed to sink his fangs into the soldier, he doubted he'd stop until he was dead, cold and lifeless beneath him. And while once upon a time, he would have loved nothing more than to reduce him to a bloody mess, he couldn't bear it now. Not with the memory of a voice telling him about tigers and wild things and regrets.

The ghosts came with him, of course. Ever since he'd opened his eyes in the cave to find that little seven-year-old girl from Versailles staring at him, one or another of his ghosts had been with him almost constantly. If it wasn't his mother's maidservant eyeing him over the gaping gash in her throat, it was the train conductor from Argentina with his intestines spilling out or Lord Dunwiddie gargling as he tried to speak past the blood that spilled down his face from the spike in his forehead. They only went away when Riley was there, as though even ghosts couldn't bear to be around him. The same light that shone in the Slayer shone in him, although it was different. More of a darkling glow, but no less beautiful for it.

Which was why Spike had to leave. If he were allowed to bite him, if he tasted his blood, he didn't trust himself to stop. Just like he hadn't stopped with Her. He'd rend and tear and destroy, because it was what he was good at. It was all he knew how to do. So he ran, just like he had from Sunnydale, fleeing into the night to try to escape from the ghosts and the memories and the burning thirst that never ended. And while the ghosts continued to talk to him, he thought he might learn to deal with them. Angel had, and he wasn't about to let Angel beat him. Not in a fight, and not in this, either.

He practiced ignoring them, learning not to pay attention to them when they screamed at him, called him murderer and rapist and monster. Finally he felt strong enough to make his way through the desert to the sea, where he looked for a ship to hide on. He would go back to Sunnydale, seek Her out and offer his apologies, and if She staked him, like She had every right to, then he could rest. At least, that was his plan.

It all went to Hell when he opened his eyes on his first night out to sea and saw his sire's brown ones staring down at him. "Hello, Will."


End file.
